


The Fall

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8227732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: d’Artagnan stated, “It’s not the fall that’s the problem, but the landings that you have to watch out for.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AZGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/gifts).



> This story is a virtual gift to the amazing AZGirl on her birthday. She was kind enough to give me a list of prompts that guided this story, and I've done my best to incorporate them here. Hope you're having a wonderful birthday, my friend, and I hope you enjoy your story!

"Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."

\- Confucius

* * *

It had to be their most ridiculous assignment to date – escort for a wealthy English merchant, his heavily-armed entourage and _the beast_. That they would be asked to accompany an Englishman was almost unheard of, but there had been no reasoning with Louis once he’d heard about the merchant’s prized possession. No amount of persuasion had moved the stubborn royal, and Treville had withdrawn his appeal, swallowing his frustrated sigh even as he racked his brain, already dreading the mission he’d have to assign to his four best men.

 

The foursome he had in mind were informally known as the Inseparables. While they’d seemed complete as a trio, d’Artagnan had effortlessly integrated himself into their midst, the others giving way as though having been waiting for his arrival before reforming seamlessly yet again into a new, and somehow better whole.

 

While the four considered each other family, there was also no doubt that the foursome contained two sets of unique partnerships, each of which further strengthened the entire group. Aramis and Porthos would undoubtedly always be drawn to one another, despite the fact that they would willingly give their lives for either of the others. Athos and d’Artagnan inexplicably behaved in a similar manner, each of them finding in the other something that was lacking in himself. There was a time when Treville would have tried to decipher the complex inner workings of these four men, but now he just knew better and left well enough alone.

 

As he’d expected, the Inseparables were less than thrilled with their latest mission. Aramis was offended at the idea of escorting an Englishman, while Athos was irate that their skills would be wasted in such a fashion. Porthos simply snorted at yet another of Louis’ ridiculous orders, while d’Artagnan looked on in utter confusion as the Captain did his best to hold onto his temper. In the end, Treville’s anger could not be contained and it had proven effective in silencing Athos and Aramis, the former man especially vocal about all the reasons why someone else should be assigned to the mission. With a stern warning about what would happen if they failed ringing in their ears, the four had set out for Calais, early Fall rains dogging them for the majority of their journey.

 

The weather hadn’t improved anyone’s disposition, especially now that their numbers had swollen to thirteen men – _unlucky thirteen_ , Aramis had stated when they’d first met up with the rich merchant. Athos had dismissed the comment with a firm glare, the look brooking no argument, but underneath his calm façade he could not ignore his gut’s warning that danger lay ahead. Resolutely, he pushed the feeling aside and they’d set out for the long journey home.

 

As expected, the Englishmen kept mostly to themselves, the merchant the only one among them who spoke French, while his hired soldiers relied on hostile glares to convey their dissatisfaction with the current arrangement. That they should be grateful to be allowed to pass through France, armed as they were, apparently never even entered their minds, and Athos concluded that they were nothing more than hired thugs – well-paid, no doubt, but still nothing more than purchased muscle.

 

The merchant himself, a man named Cavendish, had conversed with Athos once he’d found out the Musketeer had held the title of Comte. The information had been shared by Porthos on their first day together, and Athos was still contemplating how exactly he would pay his friend back for his _accidental_ slip of the tongue. Regardless of Athos’ feelings on the situation, the knowledge had made things easier, and the Englishman had become both friendlier and more amenable upon learning he was being accompanied by former nobility.

 

As such, he’d regaled the former Comte with tales of the East, explaining how he’d made his fortune in India, trading spices and various other wares with eager customers across Europe. Athos had nodded in all the right places, although he was privately appalled at some of the exorbitant prices people were willing to pay, and throughout it all he wondered how he would let Porthos know exactly how much he’d _enjoyed_ his time with the merchant.

 

The weather finally began to favor them as they neared Paris, the skies clearing and the sun shining brightly as it attempted to dry out the waterlogged ground. By that point, Athos was certain that his jaw was permanently locked into place as he was forced to smile at everything Cavendish said while ensuring that none of his true thoughts were voiced. Finally, the merchant had retreated to the comfort of his coach, and Athos was grateful for the reprieve. The continuous restraint was giving him a headache, and he lifted his right hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, lowering his head and closing his eyes for a moment as his horse followed behind the others.

 

“Athos, are you alright?” d’Artagnan asked worriedly. He kept his voiced pitched lowly so that no one else would hear.

 

The older man lifted his head and opened his eyes, allowing his hand to drop back to his lap as he replied, “I’m fine.”

 

The Gascon doubted his mentor’s assertion, the last few weeks having worn on all of them, but especially Athos. Thankfully they’d be in Paris by nightfall where they could give Cavendish over to the protection of the Red Guards. Deciding that a distraction might be in order, d’Artagnan asked, “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

 

Athos’ eyes were automatically drawn to the grey behemoth ahead of them, its odd, lumbering wake belying the strength and speed contained within. He shook his head as he replied, “Never.”

 

“Do you think it’s true that Monsieur Cavendish sometimes rides it?” the Gascon questioned, the awe clear in his expression as he gazed at the large beast.

 

Athos shrugged noncommittally, certain that at least half of what he’d been told by the merchant had been exaggeration and lies. Despite that, he’d heard stories from others that suggested there could be some truth to this particular statement. More importantly, it was likely that the King believed it to be true and was hoping for a chance to ride it himself. An unbidden image of Louis sitting astride the mammoth appeared in Athos’ mind, and he shook his head to make it go away.

 

Instead, he forced himself to focus on the group ahead of them, he and d’Artagnan at this point riding at their rear. At their head were Aramis and Porthos, and Athos trusted that they would warn of any impending danger. Following them were the merchant’s men, the eight of them scattered loosely around Cavendish’s carriage. Trailing behind on a long, thick rope was the beast the merchant had brought with him, and many, many feet behind it were Athos and d’Artagnan. Unfortunately, they’d learned the hard way earlier on that it was not a good idea to ride to close to the large, lumbering brute, since the waste it left behind was staggering in its volume and smell.

 

“I bet I could ride it,” d’Artagnan stated, his words bringing Athos back to the present.

 

The older man rolled his eyes at the Gascon’s youthful exuberance even as he asked, “Why on earth would you want to ride such a thing?” His free hand came down to unconsciously stroke his horse’s neck, the animal beneath him a pleasant mix of strength and beauty.

 

“Oh, come on, Athos,” d’Artagnan started as he looked at his mentor with a look of surprise. “Wouldn’t you like to be able to say you’d done it?”

 

“No.” The answer came quickly and without hesitation, and d’Artagnan found himself pulling up on the reins of his horse as he pinned the older man with a questioning look.

 

Athos stopped as well and met the Gascon’s gaze as the younger man repeated, “No?” A shake of the older man’s head confirmed his earlier assertion, having absolutely no interest in getting on the back of anything other than his trusted steed. “Really?” d’Artagnan questioned, still unable to believe his mentor’s disinterest, and Athos shook his head firmly once more. “Huh,” the Gascon finally said, accepting that he would never see the older man on top of the beast.

 

As d’Artagnan processed what he’d heard, Athos waited patiently, his lips quirking slightly as the Gascon’s adventurous streak showed itself. The young man’s thrill-seeking side had been tempered since he’d joined their ranks, but times like these reminded him that d’Artagnan was still young and subject to occasional flights of fancy. It was unlikely that the Gascon had even considered the dangers associated with what he was proposing, instead caught up in the fantasy of how it would feel to control such a beast – if that was even possible.

 

Athos waited a moment longer before nudging the young man gently with his knee, their two horses standing close enough together to allow the contact. Once he had d’Artagnan’s attention, he motioned towards the others who’d travelled some distance in the time since they’d stopped. “Ready to catch up?”

 

With a gleam in his eye, d’Artagnan kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks, nudging the animal quickly into a canter and then a gallop. Athos followed swiftly in his friend’s wake, a rare grin flashing across his face as he chased after the young man, the two of them closing the gap between themselves and the others. The short race ended too quickly, and d’Artagnan found himself pulling up on his reins almost at once, slowing his horse back to a trot in preparation to walk.

 

Before he had the chance to slow down further, his mount abruptly whinnied and shied to the side, the Gascon unprepared for the erratic change. Even as he was working to rebalance himself, his horse stopped abruptly and tossed its head towards the ground. Still unsettled from earlier, d’Artagnan was helpless to stop himself from flying over his horse’s head, and he had only a moment to brace for the expected impact with the ground.

 

Stunned by his abrupt landing, it took d’Artagnan several moments to open his eyes and bring his vision into focus. His head throbbed and his body ached, and a part of his jumbled mind recognized that something was wrong. As he blinked slowly in an effort to clear his sight, his gaze sharpened on a patch of blue above him, but the view seemed somehow wrong. Rolling his head to one side, he was surprised to find himself surrounded by rocks and dirt, rather than the grass and trees they’d been alternately riding through.

 

Letting his head loll further to the side, his gaze was drawn to Athos’ dirt-streaked face, the older man lying partially on his back, and partially covered with dirt and debris. Still confused from the fall, d’Artagnan hesitantly asked, “Athos?”

 

The older man’s expression hardened as he looked up to the sky, uttering a solitary phrase. “Damn elephant.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two Musketeers mounted, and with a last glance back, they urged their horses and their guests into motion, determined to return as quickly as humanly possible.

“I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house."

― Nathaniel Hawthorne, The American Notebooks

* * *

Although they were not in the most pleasant company, Aramis was in a relatively good mood, his humour improving exponentially as the rains had finally stopped the previous day, and the sun had warmed the air around them. Except for the sometimes excessive moisture, the marksman enjoyed autumn, finding the fragrant scent of the leaves as they changed colors before lazily drifting to the ground relaxing.

 

At the sound of a soft bark, he turned his face away from the sun and his attempts to soak up every last bit of warmth before the winter snows covered the blanket of crunchy leaves they rode through. Shifting his gaze to one side, he was unsurprised to once again find the Englishman’s hound walking contentedly at Porthos’ side. For some reason, the dog had taken an immediate liking to the large Musketeer, and howled noisily whenever anyone tried to separate the two. While Porthos would offer an apologetic smile at the dog’s antics, Aramis was certain that his friend was secretly pleased at having been chosen by the loyal animal. That the hound’s choice also served to aggravate the merchant was simply a bonus, Aramis thought to himself with a smile.

 

As he watched, Porthos dropped a small piece of meat to the expectant dog, the animal’s jaws snapping closed over the morsel as he seemingly swallowed without chewing. “You’ll spoil him if you keep that up,” Aramis stated. The larger man simply shrugged, the grin on his face indicating clearly that he was unconcerned. “Paris by tonight, do you think?” the marksman asked, changing the topic.

 

Porthos looked around before nodding. “Yeah, we’re close enough that even with our _guests_ slowing us down, we should reach the city gates by dinnertime.” That the English merchant had insisted on travelling with his ornate carriage had been a point of contention early on, especially given the rutted and muddy nature of the roads they were travelling. Unfortunately, they’d been unable to convince the man to leave the ungainly conveyance behind, and privately Porthos had wondered at the real reason for the man’s reticence at staying on his horse. As a result, they’d added easily three or four days onto their journey, and all of them were impatient to finally be home.

 

They guided their horses around a large depression in the ground, Porthos smirking at his friend as he said, “Let’s see how that fancy carriage does through that.” As their horses continued forward, both men turned in their saddles to watch as the coach predictably remained on its course, its wheels dipping and the vehicle bouncing mightily as it made its way through the six inch drop and then up again to level ground. As they faced forward, he commented, “Bet he complains about the state of our roads to the King.”

 

“That is a wager I will not take, my friend,” Aramis replied. “It’s a miracle the road wasn’t washed away entirely with all the rain that’s fallen.”

 

Glancing back again, Porthos replied, “Hasn’t slowed our large four-footed friend down any, has it.”

 

Aramis followed his friend’s gaze, observing the enormous gray elephant that Cavendish had brought with him. It was apparently the real reason the merchant had been allowed safe passage to Paris, and even Aramis could admit it was an impressive beast. Standing over ten feet tall at its shoulder, the marksman would swear that the ground shook at the enormous animal’s passing. For a second, thought collided with reality and his brows furrowed in confusion as a persistent rumbling sound reached his ears. Wondering if he was imagining the sound, he addressed his friend. “Do you hear that?”

 

Both men turned to look behind them, searching for the source of the noise that had reached both their ears. Their minds registered Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s approach, the two men having engaged in some sort of friendly race, if the carefree looks on their faces was anything to go by. As Porthos and Aramis watched, the Gascon’s horse slowed and then seemed to falter, fearfully skittering to one side before stopping abruptly and dropping its head. d’Artagnan was forcefully flung from the saddle, and behind him, Athos was already sliding from his mount, something having unsettled the older man’s horse as well.

 

With a shared look of concern, Aramis and Porthos turned their horses and trotted back to where their friend’s mounts had stopped. As the marksman’s horse inched into the lead, he was startled to suddenly find the larger man’s fingers tightly around his bicep, forcing him to pull up on his reins and bring his mount to a sudden stop. “What…” he began, but Porthos was pointing down at the ground.

 

The large depression that they’d earlier avoided had disappeared, a six-foot wide gap in its place. Porthos leaned forward over his horse’s neck, trying to see inside, but the daylight quickly vanished in the hole’s murky depths, and he was unable to see anything past the few feet near the top. “What the devil is that?” Aramis asked, shocked at the empty space where minutes before had been a road.

 

“Sinkhole,” the larger man answered.

 

The marksman turned wide eyes on his friend as Porthos wiped a hand across his face. “Athos and d’Artagnan?”

 

Porthos simply nodded, confirming that their friends were within the pit that had opened up.

 

Aramis moved to dismount as he said, “Then we’d best get them out.” Before he could even swing a leg over his horse’s back, his friend’s hand was back on his arm, stopping further movement.

 

“No, all of this ground is unstable. If we’re not careful, we’ll end up down there with them,” Porthos declared.

 

“How do you know all this?” Aramis asked.

 

“Saw it once in Paris,” the larger man replied. “Water can weaken the ground, especially if there’s empty space underneath. The weight of the carriage and the elephant were probably enough to make the top layer crumble, and d’Artagnan and Athos came along just in time to fall in.”

 

“Alright,” Aramis said slowly, already beginning to scan the dirt in a hopeless attempt to differentiate between stable and unstable ground.

 

“Back up,” Porthos ordered, his hand already insistently tugging on his friend’s arm, and the marksman looked down to see the ground directly in front of his horse beginning to crumble. With infinite care, the two men urged their horses backwards, the larger man finally satisfied once they were several feet away.

 

Dismounting, Porthos indicated Cavendish who was alighting from his carriage and heading their way. “You deal with him while I check on the others.”

 

Aramis grimaced at the prospect of explaining things to the merchant, but had to admit that of the two of them, he was likely the more qualified to soothe the Englishman. As he moved towards the man, Porthos lowered himself to the ground, crawling forward carefully so as not to dislodge any more dirt. When he’d gone as far as he believed was safe, he called out. “Athos! d’Artagnan! Can either of you hear me?”

 

Even Cavendish was quiet as everyone watched the Musketeer calling out to his friends. Time seemed to stretch forever until Porthos finally heard an answering shout. “Yes, Porthos, we’re here.” The large man’s breath left him in a great sigh of relief and a wide grin split his face.

 

“Thank God, Athos. Are you alright?” the large man asked.

 

“Yes, I’m fine, but d’Artagnan’s unconscious. Any idea what happened?” Athos questioned.

 

“Looks like a sinkhole. With all the rain we’ve had, the ground was already soft.” He looked behind at the group they’d been escorting for a moment before continuing. “The weight of everyone passing over this spot was likely the last straw.”

 

At the bottom of the deep hole, Athos muttered bitterly, “Damn elephant.” Raising his voice again so that Porthos could hear him, he asked, “Is there any way to get us out of here?”

 

The large man bit his lip as he once more surveyed the area, his gut telling him that it was unsafe to attempt a rescue without equipment, and men they could trust.

 

“Porthos?” the older man called again.

 

“I don’t think we can manage it alone,” the large man replied, hoping his friend would understand his unspoken meaning.

 

Only a moment passed before Athos replied. “I understand. Finish the mission and then come back for us. We’ll be fine until then.”

 

Porthos dropped his head for a moment at the older man’s suggestion. He instinctively railed against the idea of leaving his friends behind, even though he recognized that it was the best – the only – option available to them. Clinging to a last shred of hope before he made the decision to temporarily abandon the men, he asked, “How far down are you?”

 

Porthos waited as Athos surveyed his surroundings, his heart dropping as soon as he heard the answer. “At least fifteen feet, maybe more.”

 

Glancing behind him, he could see Cavendish getting impatient, and knew it was only a matter of time before the merchant agreed with Athos’ suggestion and insisted they move along. Taking a steadying breath, the large man responded. “Alright. We’ll finish the mission and then come back.” He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Is there anything you need?”

 

Several long seconds passed before Athos replied. “Just some food and water.”

 

Porthos nodded, although the older man couldn’t see the gesture. Within minutes, the large man had gathered the requested items and dropped them down, Athos indicating that he’d received both. With a last few words of farewell, Porthos made his way back to his horse, where Aramis already stood waiting.

 

“Are you sure about this?” the marksman hissed, unwilling to mount and leave their friends behind.

 

Porthos raised his eyes to the other man’s and Aramis could see how much the decision to leave had cost his friend. “Look, I don’t know a lot about sinkholes, but I do know that one wrong move can bring the whole thing down on their heads. We need more men,” he glanced furtively at the Englishmen who were waiting to depart. Lowering his voice, he continued, “We need men we can trust, and equipment. We didn’t pack anything remotely useful for a rescue of this type. Best thing we can do for them is get to Paris as fast as we can and report to Treville.”

 

Aramis still seemed uncertain as he countered, “Perhaps one of us should stay?”

 

Porthos gave a firm shake of his head. “We’re already down two men as it is. We’ve got to finish this, Aramis.” He gave his friend a pleading look, begging him to understand, and after a moment Aramis’ shoulders slumped and he dipped his chin in agreement.

 

The two Musketeers mounted, and with a last glance back, they urged their horses and their guests into motion, determined to return as quickly as humanly possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the warm response to this story and for passing along your birthday wishes to AZGirl. I normally post a new chapter each day, but will not be posting tomorrow (Saturday) since AZGirl won't be online to enjoy it. Regular posting will resume on Sunday. In the meantime, thanks for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting on this fic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swallowing the frustrated sigh that threatened, he bent his leg, and set about the task of examining his own injury despite knowing there was little to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading, commenting and leaving kudos, and who have passed along birthday wishes to AZGirl. Thanks also for your patience in waiting for this next chapter. Hopefully it was worth the wait - enjoy!

Athos resisted the urge to sigh as his eyes once more drifted upwards to the gap far above their heads. It was possible that they might have been able to climb out without assistance, assuming they’d both been healthy enough to do so, but it had quickly become apparent that both of them had been hurt in the fall. He hadn’t said anything of their injuries earlier, not wanting to give Porthos any additional reasons not to leave them behind, but now that the group had moved on, it was time to properly assess how badly they’d been hurt.

 

Biting his lip against the sharp pain in his ankle, Athos hobbled slowly over the uneven ground, making his way back to where d’Artagnan still lay. Although they couldn’t claim to have been lucky given their current predicament, the older man would admit that at least they’d been fortunate enough to fall into a relatively large space. The area they were in was reminiscent of an underground cave, and Athos had not yet had a chance to explore it in order to find the outside edges of the cavern. As a result, they had sufficient space in which to move around, although Athos was also aware that size of the open area could represent a larger span of unstable ground above their heads.

 

Several awkward steps had him at d’Artagnan’s side, and he gratefully dropped to his knees, taking the weight off his sore ankle. The Gascon’s eyes hovered on Athos’ face, but he still seemed dazed and not fully aware of the situation. “d’Artagnan, I need to know where you’re hurt, and then we’ll see about getting some of this dirt off of you.” The young man continued to stare at his mentor, without saying a word. Athos’ brow furrowed with worry as he said, “d’Artagnan?”

 

“Hmm,” the Gascon finally replied, and Athos mentally added concussion to the list of his friend’s injuries, something he’d already suspected given the few minutes when the boy had laid unconscious after they’d fallen.

 

“Can you tell me where it hurts?” Athos prompted, unwilling to move anything until he knew that he wouldn’t be aggravating any hidden injuries.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes seemed to sharpen then and he replied, “My head hurts – a lot. Think there’s something wrong with my shoulder, too.”

 

Athos kept his expression neutral as he asked, “Anything else?” When the Gascon gave a minute shake of his head, he said, “Alright. I’m pretty sure you hit your head and have a concussion. As for your shoulder, I’ll have to move some of the dirt and rocks off you so I can have a better look. Which one hurts?”

 

“The left,” the Gascon answered.

 

Athos gave a dip of his chin in acknowledgement. “I’m going to start digging you out. Tell me if something starts to hurt and I’ll stop.” With a nod from the young man, he began to shift the dirt from his friend’s body, marvelling at the volume which covered the young man from mid-chest to his feet.

 

As d’Artagnan lay watching his mentor work, he mumbled softly, “At least it’s not snow.”

 

Athos’ head came up sharply at the comment, and he forced himself to remain calm at the reminder of the Gascon’s last birthday, when he’d nearly been lost to them after being buried by an avalanche. Unconsciously, he shivered at the terrible memory, but said nothing and continued to shift the rubble away from his friend’s body.

 

“You dug me out then, too,” d’Artagnan continued wistfully, completely unaware of his mentor’s discomfort.

 

Athos gave a grunt in reply, his hands moving continuously as he prayed that the young man would stop talking about the painful incident. His wishes seemed to have been answered as the Gascon fell quiet, and the older man spared a quick glance to make sure his friend was still awake. After several minutes, he’d shifted the majority of the debris covering the young man, and he sat up as he said, “You should be able to move now, but go slowly.”

 

As he watched, d’Artagnan began to tentatively move his legs, pulling them both free from the thin layer of debris that still covered them. Once they were clear, he looked over at Athos, the older man understanding at once and extending his hand for the Gascon to grip as he raised his upper body. As he achieved an upright position, he grimaced as the movement jostled his sore shoulder. Athos kept hold of his friend’s hand as he waited for the pain to ebb.

 

d’Artagnan released Athos’ hand once he felt steady enough to stay sitting up on his own. The older man motioned to the wall a few feet behind the Gascon. “Can you move back a bit?”

 

The young man threw a quick glance over his shoulder, aborting the movement when twin aches in his head and shoulder protested the motion. “Yes,” he answered slightly breathlessly, as he began shifting himself backwards until he felt the solidity of hard-packed earth behind him. He slumped against the support gratefully, shocked at how difficult the small amount of movement had been.

 

Athos moved closer, still staying on his knees in order to prevent his sore ankle from protesting. Once he was at the young man’s side, he indicated the Gascon’s left shoulder. “Alright if I have a look now?” d’Artagnan worried his lower lip for a moment before dipping his chin in agreement. “Can you lean forward for me?” the older man asked, seconds later helping his friend bend forward slightly so he could examine d’Artagnan’s back for any visible signs of injury. When he saw none, he guided the Gascon back to lean against the wall.

 

Athos took a moment to undo the fastenings on his protégé’s doublet, ignoring the flush of red that colored the boy’s face. Pushing the leather gently away from d’Artagnan’s shoulder, he awkwardly, reached across the young man to palpate the joint. The touch almost immediately elicited a gasp of pain, and the older man stilled his movements, waiting a moment until the Gascon gave a slight nod to continue.

 

It only took another minute for Athos to confirm his suspicions, the joint beneath his fingers already swollen and hot. Resting back on his haunches, he announced, “You’ve dislocated it.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a shaky, mirthless laugh as he replied. “That’s what I was afraid of. You’re going to have to put it back into place, aren’t you?” he asked, already certain of the answer.

 

Athos considered his friend for a moment, pleased that the young man was sounding and looking more coherent; apparently the pain of his injuries had done some good, and at least cleared some of the fog from his mind. Unfortunately, the Gascon was correct in his assessment and the dislocation would need to be reduced as soon as possible, an activity that would cause the young man a great deal of pain. As if sensing the older man’s thoughts, d’Artagnan tried to assure his friend. “It’s alright, Athos. I know it will hurt, but it will feel much better once you’re done.” The statement was accompanied by a look of complete trust that had Athos looking away for a moment in order to contain the strong emotions that surged.

 

Bringing his attention back to the Gascon, Athos pushed himself to his feet, his left leg bearing the majority of his weight for a moment as he gathered the fortitude to once more put pressure on his throbbing ankle. Unfortunately, there was no way around the fact that he’d have to shift to the young man’s left side in order to put the arm back into place, but that knowledge didn’t stop Athos from anticipating the pain that would accompany his change of position. “Athos, are you alright?” d’Artagnan asked, now looking worriedly at his mentor as the man stood in place, obviously trying to keep his weight from his right leg.

 

With a weary smile, the older man replied, “I’m fine; just twisted my ankle a little when I fell.” As if to prove his point, he began to move, hobbling around d’Artagnan’s feet and to his left side. He was breathing hard by the time he’d completed the short journey, and the Gascon glared at him as he sat down on the ground.

 

“I’ll be having a look at your ankle once you’ve finished with my shoulder,” d’Artagnan stated, far too familiar with his mentor’s penchant for understating his injuries. Even with the incessant throbbing in his skull, he could tell that the older man’s face had paled considerably and was now covered with a thin sheen of sweat.

 

Athos gave a small incline of his head in agreement, even though he privately believed it was unlikely to happen since the pain of having his arm relocated would probably cause the young man to pass out. With slow, certain movements Athos gripped the Gascon’s arm and began to manipulate it back into place. He resolutely ignored d’Artagnan’s pained expression and soft moans of pain, focusing instead on the feeling of resistance in his protégé’s shoulder joint, until he found the right spot and then forced the limb in his hands back into place.

 

The action was accompanied by a yelp that d’Artagnan couldn’t contain as the sharp ache in his shoulder climaxed before it slowly started to recede. Athos kept one hand on the young man’s upper arm, partly in comfort and partly to keep the Gascon from crumpling as he folded over his newly relocated arm. Moments later, the older man’s predication came true as d’Artagnan’s muscles turned lax in reaction to the extreme pain he’d endured. Expecting such an outcome, Athos carefully manoeuvered the young man’s body and head until he was comfortably resting against the wall. A solitary tear rolled down the Gascon’s face, and Athos tenderly wiped it away with his thumb, regretting the pain he’d caused his friend, despite the fact that it had been completely necessary.

 

With d’Artagnan once more unconscious, Athos shifted his own position until he was seated next to the young man, their shoulders and legs touching. He could feel the heat of his friend’s body through their contact, and realized with a start how cool the surrounding air was. Looking upwards, he noted the shifting position of the sun, which was beginning to leave more of their temporary prison in darkness.

 

As he realized how poorly they were prepared for the hours ahead, he cursed silently to himself, bemoaning his lack of foresight when asking Porthos for supplies. Swallowing the frustrated sigh that threatened, he bent his leg, and set about the task of examining his own injury despite knowing there was little to be done.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan wrapped his arms around himself more tightly, being careful to support his sore shoulder. He was cold and had no doubt that things would get even more unpleasant as night fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been following along with this story, and for the lovely comments, which never fail to put a smile on my face. Hope you enjoy this next part.

It had been nearly two hours since they’d ridden away from the natural oddity - or perhaps unnatural was a more appropriate description, Aramis thought to himself, still shaking his head in disbelief at the sinkhole that had appeared to swallow their friends. The air around them was rife with tension, and neither he nor Porthos had spoken since they’d set out, but he knew that both their minds were occupied with the fate of the men they’d had to leave behind.

 

Despite wanting to speed their way to Paris, they’d had to set a frustratingly slow pace, the Englishman’s carriage able to move only so quickly over the rutted road. Glancing momentarily in Porthos’ direction, Aramis could see that his friend chafed at their slow pace just as much as he did. Next to the large man’s horse, Cavendish’s hound still paced them, although he’d begun to act strangely soon after they’d started out again. At first, Porthos had tried to calm the dog with low, whispered words, but when it became apparent that the dog would not be soothed, he’d given up and hoped the strange behaviour would resolve itself on its own.

 

As the dog jumped up to nip at Porthos’ heel, his horse taking a sideways step away from the energetic animal, Aramis finally broke the silence. “What do you think is wrong with him?”

 

Porthos looked down at the hound, the animal now running a few paces ahead and then back again, almost as if he was trying to herd his adopted owner in a particular direction. Frowning, he replied, “Not sure. It’s almost like he’s trying to tell us something, but for the life of me, I have no idea what.”

 

His friend’s comment brought a small smile to the marksman’s face as he teased back, “Surely you don’t believe that he’s trying to communicate with you?”

 

Nonplussed, Porthos simply offered a slight shrug as he answered, “Seen stranger things. Besides, animals have an instinct for things that we don’t, and it pays to listen to them. I just need to figure out what he’s saying.”

 

They travelled on in silence for several more minutes before Porthos brought his horse to a stop, Aramis moving a couple steps ahead of him before doing the same. Turning, he threw a questioning look at his friend, but Porthos was attentively watching the dog. Now that they were no longer moving, the hound had increased the distance it was covering, moving from Porthos and getting dangerously close to the elephant that was still tied to the back of the carriage. The large Musketeer’s eyes narrowed as he watched the dog run back and forth several times, before he came to a standstill once more beside Porthos’ mount.

 

Letting out a huff, he slid from his saddle and down to the ground, the dog immediately coming to him and nuzzling his hand. Obligingly, Porthos scratched the hound’s head for a few seconds and then watched as the dog once more moved toward the elephant, pausing partway to look over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. “I’m coming,” Porthos grumbled lowly. The hound stopped several feet away from the large beast, having learned through experience not to get too close. There, he sat and yipped twice at Porthos, as the large man stopped beside the dog and again petted his head absentmindedly. “What are you trying to tell me?” he mumbled under his breath.

 

At a nudge to his leg from the dog’s head, Porthos stepped carefully forward, stopping at what he considered a safe distance from the elephant who waited patiently for their journey to resume. The Musketeer’s gaze landed on the thick rope that encircled the animal’s neck and connected it to the to back of the coach, the other end looped several times around the chassis.

 

He was startled from his examination by Aramis, who had appeared at his side, completely confused by his friend’s odd behaviour. “Porthos, what is it?”

 

The larger man began to shake his head and then stopped, realization dawning as his eyes still stared at the long length of rope. “The rope – we can use it to pull them out.”

 

Aramis’ brow furrowed momentarily as he processed Porthos’ words, his mind then turning almost at once to all the reasons why the idea wouldn’t work. “But the elephant has to stay tied. Can you imagine a beast like that getting loose and going on a rampage through the French countryside?”

 

Porthos’ face spilt into a wide grin as he clapped the marksman heartily on the back. “Aramis, you’re a genius.”

 

“What?” the marksman looked at his friend in bewilderment, but the other man was already moving away, walking determinedly towards the door of the coach where Cavendish’s face was once more peering out to identify why they’d stopped.

 

“Monsieur Cavendish,” Porthos addressed the man as he stood at the side door. “You have the means for us to rescue our friends. We’ll need to turn back and will be slightly delayed in reaching Paris.” He accompanied the statement with what he hoped was a charming smile, briefly considering that he should have shared his idea first with Aramis and had the other man talk with the Englishman.

 

As expected, Cavendish frowned at the suggestion of extending their trip, and Porthos knew the man would order that they continue. As he thought frantically about what he could say to convince the man, Aramis’ voice interjected. The marksman had no idea why Porthos had said what he had, but trusted that he wouldn’t have made the suggestion to turn around without having a plan in mind. He also recognized that his friend would be out of his element negotiating with the merchant, and had positioned himself nearby in order to offer assistance.

 

“Monsieur Cavendish, Porthos is correct. We must return for the others and will do our best to minimize the delay.” The merchant’s attention had swung to Aramis as soon as he’d begun to speak, but his expression signalled that he was far from convinced. Hoping that he was not taking too much of a risk, the marksman went on. “As you can imagine, Athos holds a special place in His Majesty’s heart.” Leaning conspiratorially closer, he said, “I’m sure you understand from your own conversations with the Comte that he’s no ordinary man.”

 

The merchant’s features smoothed as he brushed both hands down the front of his doublet as if to banish the non-existent wrinkles from the cloth. He nodded in agreement as he replied. “Yes, the Comte is a unique man and it’s unusual to find a man of his important stature in such a role.”

 

Sagely, Aramis nodded in response. “Very true, and I’m certain that’s why we were assigned to escort you safely to Paris.” The marksman hoped the unspoken message was clear to the other man, and from the wide smile that appeared on Cavendish’s face, the merchant had understood his meaning.

 

“Very well, then. We’ll turn around and rescue the others,” the merchant stated, raising his voice so that his men could hear. “I’m certain the King will appreciate the time and effort we’ve taken to do so.”

 

Again, Aramis’ head was bobbing, his smile matching the other man’s. “Without a doubt, Monsieur Cavendish. I’m sure he’ll look upon your selflessness in the matter with great appreciation.”

 

With a tip of his head, Aramis withdrew, glancing momentarily to this side to ensure Porthos was doing the same. Once they were far enough away, they turned and walked purposefully toward their horses, and the larger man leaned closer to his friend, asking, “What the heck was all that about?”

 

Aramis grinned cheekily as he replied. “Cavendish believes that the King will ‘thank’ him for helping us rescue not only a member of his personal guard, but also one of his nobles.”

 

Porthos snorted at the statement. “Hasn’t he figured out yet that Athos walked away from his title years ago, and he’s more likely to stand before the King to be reprimanded than to be praised?”

 

The marksman’s eyes twinkled as he answered. “Apparently not, and let’s keep it that way for now.” He paused a moment as both men mounted. As he adjusted his hold on the horse’s reins he said, “Now, fill me in on this plan of yours to save Athos and d’Artagnan.”

* * *

Athos’ ears alerted him to the Gascon’s possible waking before anything else, the young man’s breathing speeding and a low moan emitting from his throat. The older man opened his eyes, having been roused from a light doze, and he turned to look at his friend who was still seated, albeit in a somewhat slumped position, beside him. The time since the others had departed had passed quietly, d’Artagnan not yet having regained consciousness since he’d passed out after having his shoulder relocated. That had allowed Athos to gently examine the Gascon’s head, discovering a fairly large knot on the back of the young man’s skull.

 

Athos hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but after examining his badly sprained ankle, there had been little else to do. Plus, he’d reasoned with himself, he’d gain nothing by further exacerbating his injury, and the experience of tending to both himself and d’Artagnan had left him oddly tired.

 

Athos’ eyes darted upwards momentarily, noting that the sun had continued to pass over their position, leaving even more of their space deeply shadowed. He was not afraid of the dark, but even he would admit that not being able to see the outside edges of the cavern they inhabited was more than a little disconcerting. It was hard to say if it was the thought of being trapped so far below ground, or the chill that now permeated the air around him that had him shivering moments later, and he absently wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to warm up.

 

Beside him, d’Artagnan had groaned again, the sound louder this time than the last, signalling his imminent return to awareness. Carefully, Athos shifted himself slightly to get a better look at his friend, not wanting to accidently jostle the Gascon’s sore arm. The young man’s eyes were crinkled in pain, and the older man was certain that d’Artagnan was suffering from the dual aches in his head and shoulder. As he continued to watch, the Gascon’s brows lifted once and then again, before the young man finally succeeded in opening his eyes.

 

The older man waited patiently as d’Artagnan blinked several times, no doubt trying to clear vision that was clouded by his concussion. Seconds later, the Gascon’s eyes seemed to focus on the area above their heads, and Athos followed the direction of the young man’s gaze with his own. The hole above them was impressive in its size, and yet the open area around them was even more vast, reminding Athos again that they were still in danger of having more dirt and rocks dumped on their heads. He could hear d’Artagnan smacking his dry lips and turned back to face his friend, one hand already reaching for the water skin that he’d kept close by.

 

“Here,” Athos said as he offered the Gascon a drink. d’Artagnan reached for it with his uninjured hand, but Athos steadied it with his own, knowing that the weight of the skin was too great for the young man to manage on his own. d’Artagnan sipped carefully, no doubt feeling somewhat nauseous, and the older man was grateful for his friend’s restraint. Concussions were notorious for making those suffering from them sick to their stomachs, and Athos had no desire for their temporary home to be filled with the scent of the young man’s illness.

 

d’Artagnan leaned his head back against the wall behind him to indicate when he’d had enough, and Athos withdrew the water skin as he asked, “How are you feeling?”

 

The Gascon slowly rolled his head to the side to make eye contact with his friend before answering. “Sore.” Bringing his hand up to rub at his temple, he questioned, “What happened?”

 

“Your elephant happened,” Athos replied, his friend’s fascination with the large beast still fresh in his memory. At the Gascon’s confused expression, he explained. “The ground above us was apparently softened by the rains. When Cavendish passed over this spot with his coach and elephant, the strain became too much and a section of ground gave way. We were just unfortunate enough to fall in.”

 

d’Artagnan offered a tentative nod in reply, although it was obvious that he was still uncertain about what he’d been told. “Why are we still down here?” he asked, his upper body trembling for a moment as his body registered the dropping temperature.

 

Athos gave a tired sigh as he answered. “The ground above us is still unstable, and we had no supplies with us that could be used to get us out. I ordered Porthos to continue on to Paris and return for us once they’ve gathered what they need.”

 

The Gascon began to nod once more, aborting the movement as the pain in his skull sharpened. With a wince, he stilled and said, “So we’re stuck down here until they get back?”

 

The older man dipped his chin. “Yes. We’ll be here overnight at the very least.”

 

d’Artagnan wrapped his arms around himself more tightly, being careful to support his sore shoulder. He was cold and had no doubt that things would get even more unpleasant as night fell. He wished briefly for a blanket with which to warm himself, but even in his somewhat befuddled state, his mind reminded him that Athos would have already provided one, had they had one available.

 

Without even realizing it, he settled himself more comfortably, his side leaning against his mentor’s strong shoulder. As his eyes drifted closed, he missed the slight quirking of Athos’ lips, the man shifting carefully so that d’Artagnan would be more comfortable while he slept. He knew that he should make an effort to keep his protégé awake, but with things growing more uncomfortable by the minute, he could not deny his friend the short reprieve.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seemed that they’d just traded one form of trouble for another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading, commenting or leaving kudos. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

It was the cold that woke him, the ache of it having settled deep into his sore shoulder joint, and he couldn’t stifle a low moan at the sensation. He was slowly becoming increasingly aware, but kept his eyes closed as his sluggish brain reviewed what had happened. He remembered seeing the sky far above them, and his heartbeat sped in response to the feeling of falling that had seemed to last forever. He couldn’t recall the actual landing, but remembered Athos telling him that he’d struck his head.

 

Another memory asserted itself, this time that of Athos changing positions in order to tend to his shoulder, and d’Artagnan frowned as he tried to recall what he’d seen that had worried him. Suddenly, realization struck and he gasped a deep breath as his eyes flew open. “Athos!”

 

“I’m right here, d’Artagnan,” the older man replied, startled by the Gascon’s sudden shift from stillness to such animation. He had a hand on his protégé’s chest, hoping to calm the boy as he asked, “What’s wrong?”

 

d’Artagnan allowed the pressure of his mentor’s hand to ground him and took several slower breaths before he replied. “You’re hurt.”

 

Athos’ expression turned to mild annoyance, but he couldn’t bring himself to be genuinely angry with the young man just because the boy was worried about him. “I’m fine,” he stated firmly.

 

“No,” d’Artagnan seemed about to shake his head, but thought better of it at the last moment and aborted the action. “You were limping earlier. I need to look at your ankle.”

 

Swallowing his sigh of frustration, Athos softened his expression as he said, “I’ve already looked.” The Gascon’s face turned expectant with his unspoken question. Recognizing that he had no choice but to be truthful, lest the young man take it upon himself to check, Athos went on. “It’s not fine, but I’m certain it’s not broken.”

 

“Did you bind it?” d’Artagnan questioned, still itching to have a look for himself, but willing to accept his mentor’s word, now that he was being more forthcoming.

 

With a regretful shake of his head, Athos answered. “No, we have no bandages.”

 

d’Artagnan’s right hand was already moving to unfasten his doublet again, in order to reach the shirt underneath, when Athos’ hand stayed the action. “No, we can’t spare it. It’s already cold down here and it’s only going to get colder. We’ll need our clothes on our backs to get through the night.”

 

The Gascon held the older man’s gaze for several long seconds as if trying to change his friend’s mind, before finally dipping his chin in acknowledgement. He knew how much better Athos’ ankle would feel once it was wrapped, but grudgingly accepted that neither of them could spare the linen from their shirts as makeshift bandages. Pushing himself up straighter against the wall at their backs, he asked, “How long have we been down here?”

 

Athos wasn’t certain, normally tracking the passage of time by the sun’s movement, but he replied with his best estimate. “Three, maybe four hours.”

 

“It’ll be dark soon,” d’Artagnan mumbled, his eyes once more on the hole above them, which was letting in progressively less daylight. “Have we anything with which to make a fire?” he asked, his hand fumbling to find the fire starter he always kept with him.

 

“That won’t do us any good,” Athos said, indicating towards the Gascon’s inner pocket where the device was normally kept. “There’s no dry wood down here to burn, only some tree roots which are still far too wet to light.”

 

Unwilling to give up so easily, d’Artagnan used the wall to push himself unsteadily to his feet. Athos remained on the ground, his ankle throbbing angrily in time with the beating of his heart. He watched as the Gascon stumbled unsteadily forward, moving to stand directly underneath the gap above their heads. He stood there for several long seconds before turning back to face the older man. “Maybe we can climb our way out?”

 

Athos hated being the bearer of bad news, but he had no choice other than to point out the hopelessness of their predicament. “The walls are too far from the edges of the hole we fell through, and even if they weren’t, I don’t think either one of us is in any shape to make the effort.” He wanted to be back above ground as badly as the younger man, but understood that neither of them would be going anywhere without help.

 

Frustration seeped into d’Artagnan’s voice as he said, “Surely there’s something we can do.”

 

With a steadying breath, Athos replied. “There’s nothing to do but wait for the others to return. They will come back for us – you know that, right?”

 

d’Artagnan offered an inelegant snort in reply, already making his way back to where the older man sat. “Of course I know that. I just hate waiting,” he muttered.

 

“As do we all,” Athos answered softly.

 

Further conversation was stopped as a voice from above shocked them with its presence. “Athos! d’Artagnan! Can you hear me?”

 

Closer to the opening than Athos, it was the Gascon who returned to his previous position, craning his neck as he looked upwards and replied, “Yes, we’re here, Porthos.”

 

“d’Artagnan, it’s good to hear your voice, lad. Give us a few minutes and we’ll have you out of there in no time,” the larger man called.

 

“Porthos, why are you back already?” Athos asked, the older man having stood and painfully made his way to stand next to d’Artagnan. Without thought, the Gascon stepped closer to grip his mentor’s elbow, Athos giving a slight dip of his chin in thanks.

 

Above, Porthos licked his lips as he considered how best to answer his friend’s question. He knew that the man would likely be mad at them for turning back without having fulfilled their mission, but Athos had no idea of how difficult it had been for them to ride away. “We have a way of getting you out, Athos. Just be patient for a few minutes and then you can finish the mission with us.”

 

It was a less than satisfactory answer, but Athos was willing to allow it if it spared them a long, cold night. Despite casting their eyes upwards, there was nothing to be seen, and d’Artagnan eventually suggested, “Athos, maybe you should sit back down.”

 

The older man shook his head. “No, I’ll be fine.” The Gascon was less than impressed by the answer, but he adjusted their positions, ducking beneath his friend’s shoulder to better steady the man.

 

Just as d’Artagnan was beginning to lose patience, Porthos shouted to them. “We’re throwing down a rope.”

 

The graying sky above them was momentarily broken as a rope was flung into the hole. The thick, heavy line fell almost at their feet, pooling as more of it was fed over the edge. “Do you have enough to hold onto while we pull you up?”

 

Athos and d’Artagnan traded looks as they considered how best to attach the rope to themselves in order to be hoisted out. “Yes, more than enough,” the older man replied. “I’ll tie it around your waist,” he said to d’Artagnan as he began to shift away from the Gascon’s support in order to pick up the line.

 

As if hearing Athos’ words, Porthos called out to them again. “We’ll have to pull you both out at the same time. The ground up here is too unstable to try this more than once.” With trepidation, he scanned the earth around him, which was filled with more of the ominous depressions like the one that had given way earlier. If the men below had any idea of what it looked like above, they’d be equal parts angry at him for trying to mount a rescue, and understandably afraid of a cave-in. “You might want to hurry it up,” Porthos urged.

 

“A minute please,” Athos replied, examining the rope as he considered how they could best attach themselves to it. In the end, he did as he’d first suggested to the Gascon, tying a length of the line around the young man’s waist, and placing another piece into d’Artagnan’s hand so he could hold himself upright. Athos took a section closer to the end and tied a loop into it, allowing him to place his foot into the loop while also holding onto the rope higher up. It took longer than expected, Athos’ hands not nearly as dextrous as normal due to the cold air around them, but finally they were ready.

 

With both of them securely positioned, the two friends nodded at each other and d’Artagnan called to Porthos above. “Ready.”

 

While not an exactly pleasant experience, their journey up was surprisingly smooth and swift, Porthos helping each man as he was hoisted over the edge of the hole, and then pulling them backwards onto stable ground. When they’d reached what Porthos considered a safe location, Athos and d’Artagnan gratefully collapsed onto their backs, their exertions reawakening their earlier injuries. Porthos sat on the ground beside them as he chuckled at their bedraggled state, while his heart sang with the knowledge that they’d managed to save the two men.

 

“Well, you look a little worse for wear, but nothing some water and clean clothes will fix, I presume?” Aramis asked. They hadn’t seen the marksman approach, but he now stood looking down on them, with his hands on his hips and a bemused expression adorning his face.

 

“Maybe a little more than that,” d’Artagnan admitted, clamping his jaw down a moment later as another shiver racked his frame. He was chilled all the way to his bones, and his head ached abominably now that the adrenaline of their rescue was abating.

 

Aramis had suspected as much, but had been willing to give his friends a moment of respite before descending on them to inspect them for injuries. Crouching down beside the Gascon, he lowered his voice and asked, “Anything serious?”

 

Athos answered for him, already moving to sit up, and he gratefully gripped Porthos’ hand when it was offered to him. “He struck his head and dislocated his left shoulder. I’ve put the arm back, and there’s a knot on the back of his skull, but no blood.”

 

Aramis’ eyebrow rose in a silent question. _“Concussion?”_ it asked, and Athos nodded in response. Aloud, the marksman said, “A pain draught will help with that until we can get you back to Paris and into bed.” Turning his attention to the older man, he queried, “And you?”

 

Before Athos could reply, d’Artagnan interjected. “He’s hurt his ankle.” His brow furrowed momentarily in concentration before he added, “The right one, I think.”

 

Athos rolled his eyes, but inclined his head at the medic’s questioning gaze. “I’ll get some bandages from my saddlebag and we’ll wrap it before you get back on your horse. Blankets, too, I think.” He rose smoothly to his feet, intending to put his words into action, but stopped dead as he turned away from his friends.

 

In their joy at being reunited, they’d broken a cardinal rule and let down their guard. Aramis raised his hands in supplication at the pistols that were now pointed at them, Cavendish off to one side with a knife to his throat, while another armed man held the merchant’s dog at bay. The only one unfazed was the elephant who stood where he’d been stopped after pulling the Musketeers free from the sinkhole. Unfortunately, it seemed that they’d just traded one form of trouble for another.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment later he dropped to his knees, his limp body falling swiftly sideways towards the hard-packed, dirt floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the twist in the last chapter. There's a couple more to go before we reach the end. Hope you enjoy this next part.

Instead of the blankets and bandages they’d been promised, Athos and d’Artagnan endured having their hands tied behind their backs. Porthos and Aramis suffered a similar fate once they’d all been stripped of their weapons. The process was especially painful for the Gascon, who bit down on a moan of pain as his shoulder protested his arm’s new position. He caught the concerned look that Aramis threw his way, and shook his head to indicate that he was fine, even though the joint felt as though it was on fire. In truth, d’Artagnan guessed that his arm was close to popping back out of place, and it would be a miracle if it didn’t.

 

He had breathed slowly for over a minute after his hands had been bound as the pain had crested and he’d struggled to adjust. As such, he’d missed the others being tied and was startled out of his daze by a pistol at his back, the man holding it prompting him to begin walking. They’d marched for several hours, even after night had fallen, with the Englishmen surrounding them and the coach in the lead. The arrangement lasted for less than an hour, until the elephant stopped and began to relieve itself, prompting their captors to reposition the beast at their backs.

 

While Porthos had snickered at the men’s looks of disgust, d’Artagnan had been grateful for the change, the elephant’s scent combined with his throbbing skull making it difficult to push his growing nausea away. Incredibly, he’d completed the journey without mishap, falling into a pain-filled fugue by the time they’d arrived at their destination and been roughly pushed into a cell. As such, he was unaware that Athos had struggled just as badly, the older man positioned behind him for most of their journey. That the older man had managed to stay on his feet for such a long time was a testament to his iron will, even though he was incapable of containing his sounds of pain near the end.

 

It was then that Porthos had threatened and Aramis had begged, neither man able to continue listening to Athos’ whimpers and groans as he forced his injured ankle to take his weight. He’d fallen multiple times and both men had done their best to help him stand, but there was little support they could offer while their hands were bound behind them. Although both had been vocal throughout their forced march, it was at this point that they steadfastly refused to take another step unless Athos was allowed to ride.

 

Luckily, the men were not yet interested in disposing of their prisoners, and Athos was none too gently helped onto the back of his horse. By then, Aramis and Porthos were exchanging worried looks as they took in their friend’s hunched form and pale, sweaty face. d’Artagnan, in his pain-filled fog, was barely aware that they’d stopping moving and simply swayed in place until prodded into motion once more. Aramis and Porthos spent the remainder of the journey keeping an eye on the older man to ensure he didn’t fall from his horse, and gently nudging d’Artagnan’s good shoulder when he meandered off course.

 

As they were untied and deposited into their prison, Aramis made a plea for their supplies, hoping that their captors were not only interested in keeping their foursome alive, but also in relatively decent condition. He’d been uncertain about whether or not the men had understood his request, until several minutes later their saddlebags and two water skins had been thrown through the door before quickly being re-closed. He’d breathed a long sigh of relief as he pounced on the items, doing a quick inventory as he went. “Nothing in here that could be used as a weapon, but at least they left most of my medical supplies alone, and it looks like we have food as well as water,” he remarked over his shoulder to Porthos.

 

The larger man was crouched next to Athos, having just helped the man sit against the far wall. On his other side lay d’Artagnan, the young man having slid down the stone barrier as soon as he’d reached it. The only good thing about their impromptu march was that it had served to warm them, but Aramis was mindful of the fact that they’d soon lose any heat their bodies had generated within the cool, dank cell. Moving quickly, he found blankets and instructed Porthos to place one on the ground and to shift their friends onto it; another blanket covered them both. Next, the medic instructed Porthos to try and remove Athos’ boot, while he went to d’Artagnan’s side to examine his head and shoulder.

 

The Gascon’s injuries proved to be no worse than before, although Aramis strapped the young man’s arm to prevent it from pulling on the damaged joint. Other than that, there was little to be done, and d’Artagnan would be faced with several days of discomfort before both injuries healed enough to stop hurting. With a toss of his head, Aramis indicated one of the water skins, and Porthos moved to collect it, bringing it back to give the Gascon a drink. While he did so, the marksman moved to his next patient, Athos waiting stoically as he did his best to recover from having the boot removed from his badly swollen ankle.

 

As soon as Aramis laid eyes on the joint, he knew that it was bad. Likely, it had started out as a relatively typical sprain, causing discomfort and swelling, but nothing that couldn’t be aided by ice and a couple days of rest. The injury that he was looking at now was grossly swollen and badly bruised, and as he began his examination, he noted the extreme pain and loss of motion. Had he been permitted to stabilize Athos’ ankle before they’d walked for miles, the older man might have been sore, but still able to recover fairly quickly. As things stood now, he faced several days of complete rest, and at least two weeks before being able to walk somewhat comfortably.

 

As if sensing his thoughts, Athos said, “Just bind it for now, Aramis. I know there’s nothing else to be done until we get back home.”

 

The marksman looked up at his friend, wearing an expression of contrition at not being able to do more. “I’ll place some wet cloths on it first,” Aramis explained, hoping that he could at least bring some of the swelling down and reduce his friend’s pain before wrapping the joint.

 

At Athos’ weary nod, the medic soaked several bandages with water, thanking their cold surroundings for at least being of some use in numbing the ankle. When he’d finished, he stacked two of the saddlebags and raised his friend’s foot to rest on top of them, hoping that the increased elevation would also help with the swelling and pain. “Sorry, Athos, there’s not much else I can do.”

 

“It’s fine, Aramis,” the older man replied, waiting for a moment before the marksman raised his eyes. “Thank you.” The medic tipped his head slightly in reply. “How’s d’Artagnan?”

 

“I’m fine,” the Gascon responded, and Athos turned his head to see the young man’s gaze on him.

 

“Really?” Athos asked, a note of incredulousness coloring his tone.

 

Aramis sighed as he concurred. “Fine may be too strong a word, but he’s no worse off than before. You did a good job of putting his arm back and he really just needs time and rest to heal.”

 

Satisfied that their injuries had been tended, he motioned to the door of their prison. “Any chance of getting out that way?”

 

“None,” Porthos answered matter-of-factly, having tested it already and finding absolutely no give.

 

“Any other way out?” Athos asked, his eyes drifting around the walls of their prison in an effort to identify any vulnerabilities.

 

Porthos snorted as he replied. “Not unless you think one of us is gonna fit through that window.” He indicated a small opening set high above the floor. Given its size, it hadn’t even been barred, no one believing it to be a viable avenue of escape from their otherwise impenetrable prison.

 

As they all reached the same conclusion that Porthos had, d’Artagnan’s voice broke the stillness. “I can fit.”

 

Three startled faces turned towards him, their expressions quickly morphing to disbelief. “d’Artagnan, there’s no way that you can fit through that,” Aramis stated, voicing what all of them were thinking.

 

The Gascon was already attempting to rise, and with a roll of his eyes, Porthos leaned forward from where he’d been standing to help pull the young man to his feet. d’Artagnan gave his friend a quick nod of thanks before walking closer to the opening, staring up at it to properly gauge its size.

 

Aramis hung back with Athos, understanding that the older man would be chafing at his inability to follow the others, even though they were only separated by twelve or so feet. He could easily see Athos’ concern for his protégé’s idea etched in his face, and knew that the older man would speak out against d’Artagnan’s plan of trying to escape. Right on cue, Athos spoke. “These men have treated us well enough so far, and I don’t believe our situation is so dire yet that we cannot wait a day to see how things unfold.”

 

Aramis and Porthos traded guilty glances, the older man catching them in the act. “What? Is there something more going on?”

 

The marksman was the only one among them who spoke any English and he looked incredibly uncomfortable as he replied. “I heard a couple of them talking on the way here. They plan to replace Cavendish with one of their men and present him to the King. From what I was able to understand, they’re quite excited at the prospect of trying to assassinate him.”

 

Athos closed his eyes and dropped his head at the information. With Louis’ life at stake, their situation had turned urgent. d’Artagnan seemed to realize the gravity as well as he turned his attention to Porthos. “Do you think you can boost me high enough so I can reach it?” he asked as he motioned towards the window.

 

Porthos glanced in Athos’ direction, waiting until the older man met his gaze and, after several seconds, offered a slight nod. “Of course,” he answered as he stepped forward.

 

d’Artagnan was already slipping the sling from his arm, needing both hands free for what he was about to attempt. As Aramis and Athos watched, Porthos cupped his hands together, providing a place for the Gascon’s foot. When they were both ready, the large man heaved his friend upwards, d’Artagnan scrabbling to grab the opening’s edge. As he held on, Porthos shifted further beneath the young man, allowing him to change position and rest his feet on the large man’s broad shoulders.

 

Moments later, d’Artagnan’s voice called down, “No, it won’t work. I’m coming down.” Porthos bent his knees so that he was closer to the floor, at the same time raising one arm and offering a hand to the Gascon as he jumped down.

 

Slightly breathless, d’Artagnan turned to his friends as he stated, “The opening is too narrow – my shoulders won’t fit.”

 

To a man, their faces fell at the news. “Well, that’s that then,” Aramis stated. “We’ll just need to wait until another opportunity presents itself.” Picking up the sling that the young man had discarded, he approached and said, “Let me help you with this. No sense making that shoulder any worse.”

 

“That’s it,” d’Artagnan exclaimed, looking back up at the window for a moment before seeking out Porthos. “Porthos, I need you to dislocate my arm again.”

 

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.” Porthos and Aramis spoke at the same time, their expressions of shock tumbling out quickly at the outrageous request.

 

Only Athos remained calm as he asked, “You believe you can squeeze through if it’s out of place?”

 

“Yes,” the Gascon answered, watching as an array of conflicting emotions flittered across his mentor’s face. He knew that Athos would be unhappy with his suggestion, and it honestly wasn’t his favorite idea either, his shoulder still throbbing from its earlier mistreatment. On the other hand, both of them knew that duty had to come before any personal discomfort, and if there was any chance he could get free and warn the King, they were obligated to take it.

 

As Athos’ eyes bored into him, they spoke without words, the older man asking whether he was sure, and the Gascon nodding back that he was. Their gazes remained locked for a moment longer before Athos spoke. “Aramis, can it be done without permanent injury?”

 

“What? Are you mad?” the marksman spluttered. At Athos’ hard glare, he replied, “I suppose it’s possible, but…” He trailed off for a few seconds before asking, “Athos, d’Artagnan – are you certain about this?”

 

This time it was the Gascon who spoke. “It’s not my first choice, but it’ll be worth it if it works.”

 

The medic moved closer to the young man, placing a hand on his uninjured shoulder and leaning in as he asked, “Are you certain you can manage the pain?”

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip for a moment, recalling the intense agony of having his arm out of joint, and then gave a tip of his chin. With a resigned sigh, the medic turned to Porthos, the larger man still unconvinced. “No, there’s gotta be another way.” His eyes moved from one man to the next, but all of his friends’ expressions were in agreement and Porthos found himself slowly nodding. “Alright then.” As he positioned himself in front of d’Artagnan, he gave the young man a last chance to change his mind. “You’re sure?”

 

The Gascon took a steadying breath and set his chin, preparing to have his arm intentionally dislocated. He locked gazes with Athos over Porthos’ shoulder, and tried to draw on his mentor’s strength. When he was as ready as he could be, he whispered, “Alright, do it.”

 

The blow was incredibly fast and carried the force of a runaway stallion. Porthos’ hand unerringly struck the Gascon’ shoulder, the strength of the blow flinging the young man back against the wall. Everyone could hear the sickening pop as d’Artagnan’s arm came free, and immediately the young man’s vision was obscured by a blinding flash of white as agony consumed him. A moment later he dropped to his knees, his limp body falling swiftly sideways towards the hard-packed, dirt floor.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a last look around, he began moving downwards, praying that he wasn’t about to make a mistake that would damn both his friends and his King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to yesterday's chapter; final one will be up tomorrow. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this next part.

Aramis had leapt forward to try and stop d’Artagnan’s fall, but Porthos had been closer and had wrapped his arms around the young man’s upper body, slowing his descent and guiding him carefully downwards. As the larger man cradled the Gascon’s back against his chest, Aramis knelt beside them, while Athos anxiously looked on, barely resisting the nearly overwhelming need to get up and check on his protégé himself.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis grasped his patient’s chin, lifting it so that he could see the young man’s face, which had dipped toward his chest. The Gascon’s lids were fluttering, not fully open but not closed either, and it gave the medic hope that d’Artagnan would be alright. “Are you with us?” the marksman asked, still supporting his friend’s head.

 

Several seconds passed before the Gascon gave a shaky nod, his eyes closing immediately afterwards as the pain in his head spiked. He took a few steadying breaths and then mumbled, “’M fine.”

 

Aramis huffed at his friend’s predictability. “You are most certainly _not_ fine, d’Artagnan.” But even as he uttered the words, the young man was becoming more aware and beginning to take back control of his body.

 

“Alright, not fine, but good enough for what needs to be done,” the Gascon replied, already attempting to remove himself from his friend’s embrace.

 

Porthos instinctively tightened his hold to keep his friend from rising, but a word from Athos had him helping instead. “Porthos, let him up. Otherwise everything we’ve just done will have been wasted,” the former Comte ordered. The larger man was unhappy at the prospect of releasing the Gascon, but couldn’t argue that they’d dislocated their friend’s arm for a reason, and now they had to let him try and escape.

 

Porthos rose with d’Artagnan, steadying him on one side, while Aramis stood on the other, both men being careful to avoid touching the young man’s left arm. “How bad is it?” the medic asked, needing to gauge whether their friend was even capable of doing what needed to be done next.

 

d’Artagnan swallowed thickly, the bile rising dangerously in his throat at the exquisite agony in his shoulder. Once he was fairly certain that his stomach contents wouldn’t be making a reappearance, he said, “Awful, but nothing I can’t manage.”

 

Porthos’ face fell at the suffering he’d caused his friend, and before he could stop himself, he was apologizing. “I’m sorry, lad. This was a bad idea and I should have refused to play any part in it.”

 

The Gascon steeled his expression as he replied. “No, Porthos, this had to be done. Thank you for having the courage to do it.” The large man held his friend’s gaze for several moments before finally giving a short nod.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos called, and the young man moved closer to his mentor, seeing the tense set of the man’s shoulders and jaw. For a moment, neither of them spoke, and then the older man reached up a hand as he said, “Be careful.”

 

The Gascon grasped his mentor’s hand for a moment and then gave it a squeeze before releasing it. “I’d better go,” he whispered and Athos dipped his chin in reply.

 

Wordlessly, Porthos and d’Artagnan retook their earlier positions, with the former man once more using his considerable strength to propel his friend upwards. Grasping onto the window ledge was a much harder affair this time, with the Gascon’s left arm hanging uselessly at his side, the limb almost entirely numb. Understanding his friend’s struggles, Porthos adjusted quickly to again allow the young man to stand on his shoulders, and d’Artagnan stayed there for several seconds as he prepared to push himself through the small opening.

 

With a last steadying breath, followed by a long, slow exhale, he reached through the window with his right arm and began to squeeze his way out. As expected, he was momentarily stuck as his shoulders tried to pass through, until he felt Porthos pushing on his feet, giving him the additional shove needed to clear the narrow space. He was grateful to find that he was only a few feet above ground since he was coming through the opening head first. Pulling himself downwards against the wall, he continued to shimmy his back end, until abruptly he was free and falling.

 

The distance he fell this time was nothing compared to the sinkhole, but he still landed hard, the impact jarring his injuries. He lay on the ground for nearly a minute as he waited for the pain to subside, before the low sound of voices reached his ears. “d’Artagnan, damn it, answer me. Are you alright?”

 

With a low groan, the Gascon rolled to his right side and then slowly levered himself up, taking a first look around where he’d fallen. Thankfully, he was in deep shadow, and the slowly lightening sky above revealed that there was no one else around. Taking a moment, he undid some of the fastenings on his doublet around his midsection, and guided his injured arm inside the garment to provide it with a modicum of support. It didn’t make much of a difference, but at this point he was desperate for even the tiniest bit of relief.

 

Using the wall at his back, he pushed his way to his feet and called lowly through the window, “I’m fine. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow with help.” With those words, he turned away from the opening, taking a moment to survey his surroundings before setting out. Initially, he stayed close to the building he’d just exited, but the outer wall soon curved away from another stone barrier, which he identified as a fence. Checking that he was still alone, he sprinted towards the boundary wall, and continued to follow it until he spotted a gate.

 

Based on its size, it was a less-used side or rear entrance into the stronghold they currently occupied. As such, there was no one even standing guard. Once d’Artagnan had inspected the barricade more closely, he discovered a rusted lock that held the gate closed. Normally, he would use a rock to break it open, or preferably, would take advantage of Porthos’ lock-picking skills, but in this instance neither option was available to him. Cursing the fact that he’d need to climb over the gate instead of passing through it, he reached for the top and began clambering up.

 

By the time he’d pulled himself up and over the barrier, he was sweating with exertion and trembling in misery from his injuries. As he leaned against the outside of the fence to recover, he wondered momentarily if there was any way of reducing his dislocation on his own, but if there was, he was unaware of it. Clamping his jaw shut, he pushed determinedly away from the stone boundary and began walking, for now keeping it to his left as he looked for a road that would lead him away from the fortress.

 

The further he moved, the narrower his path became, until he was almost forced to walk sideways, with his back to the wall. He continued in this fashion for perhaps another hundred feet before the wall sloped sharply downwards, and he realized that the main entrance was just ahead and below his current position. As expected, there were men guarding it, but surprisingly only two, which he guessed was due to the overall small size of the rebel group.

 

He looked to his right side, noting how abruptly the ground dropped away, with even ground at least twenty feet below his current position. The path forward was also steeply declined, but at least he could press himself against the stone barrier in order to steady his descent. Taking a moment to prepare himself for what he was about to do, he steadfastly ignored the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Athos. _“d’Artagnan, you’re injured. How can you possibly expect to triumph over two armed and able-bodied men when you lack the use of your left arm?”_

 

The Gascon gave his head a minute shake as he mumbled softly. “I don’t know, Athos, but we both know that I have to try.” With a last look around, he began moving downwards, praying that he wasn’t about to make a mistake that would damn both his friends and his King. 

* * *

They would later learn that Treville’s network of contacts had once more provided critical intelligence that led the officer to act in a way that others viewed as almost prophetic. With the information he’d received, he’d been able to dispatch a group of Musketeers to meet up with the Inseparables and the guest they escorted. The men had been suitably confused when they’d come upon the sinkhole, but had been fortunate that they’d managed to avoid Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s fate.

 

A proper survey of the area had identified where the group had veered from the main road to Paris, taking a lesser-used path through the woods and to a small, foreboding fortress. While the stronghold would have normally been quite impressive, it was clear that it had been abandoned for some time, leaving it in disrepair and with critical weaknesses that would allow it to be breached. Further, the Musketeers happily discovered that the main gate was guarded by only two English-speaking men, providing them with enough proof that the Inseparables and their guest were contained inside.

 

Shaking their heads in amazement at an enemy that seemed to be doing such a poor job of fortifying its position, the Musketeers began to make plans to breach the fort. Ultimately, they decided to take advantage of the pre-dawn hour to overtake the guards and catch the other men inside unaware. It was as they approached the gate that the lead man, Lebas, noticed a shadow moving in their direction from the steep hill to their left. He paused immediately, another Musketeer crouching beside him as he asked, “What’s the matter?”

 

Lebas indicated the form he’d seen earlier, which was now picking up speed as it barreled towards the road and the gate below. Deciding that they would deal with whatever appeared, he rose and ordered his men into motion once more, the half-dozen men making their way along both sides of the road.

 

To the side, d’Artagnan was careening down the hill, realizing too late that he couldn’t really control his descent, leaving his legs moving as swiftly as possible just to keep him upright as he gained speed. By the time he was getting close to the bottom, he’d noticed the approaching men, but more importantly, had recognized Lebas at their lead.

 

His feet landed on the road at the same time his brothers-in-arms attacked and efficiently dispatched the English guards. His chest heaving mightily, d’Artagnan sagged against the gate as Lebas approached. “d’Artagnan, are you alright?”

 

The Gascon gave a tired nod, wincing as he did so. “Much better now that you’re here. Why exactly is that, by the way?”

 

Lebas grinned as he replied. “You know Treville and his famous instincts. I don’t know how he does it, but he thought something may have happened to you and sent us out to meet you. We found where you’d veered from the main road and tracked you here. Any idea what’s going on?”

 

d’Artagnan quickly recapped what Aramis had told them about the plot to assassinate the King, and Lebas immediately ordered one of his men back to Paris to deliver a warning. Having dealt with the most immediate threat, the Gascon said, “Come on, we need to find and free the others.”

 

Lebas’ hand immediately came up to grip the other man’s arm, releasing it at once when he heard a hiss of pain. “You’re injured,” he stated.

 

“It’s nothing,” d’Artagnan countered. At the other man’s look of disbelief, he relented. “Alright, yes, I’m hurt, but so is Athos and we need to get to the others before anything more happens.”

 

“You should stay here,” Lebas suggested to the headstrong Musketeer. The answer he received wasn’t unexpected.

 

“No, I’m coming with you. Besides, I have a rough idea of where to go,” the Gascon countered.

 

Only a moment passed before Lebas grudgingly nodded in agreement. “Are you armed?”

 

“No, they took everything from us,” d’Artagnan responded.

 

With one arm out of commission, the Gascon would be unable to reload a pistol. Plus, it would be better if they could take the enemy by surprise, which necessitated silence. Reaching into his doublet, Lebas pulled out a rectangular-shaped leather pouch. Lifting the flap, he showed the contents to d’Artagnan, asking, “Can you handle these?”

 

The Gascon’s face split into a wide smile as he took the item from Lebas. “Thanks. Now let’s go find the others.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he hurried to catch up to them, the sound of his friends’ laughter floated back to him, and Porthos groaned as he vowed to never get on Athos’ bad side again.

Much to Lebas’ displeasure, d’Artagnan lead the charge through the now unguarded, main gate into the fort. With an annoyed roll of his eyes, the Musketeer followed quickly in the Gascon’s wake, the others close on his heels. They’d managed only a dozen steps before encountering more of the Englishmen, and after the first pistol discharge by the enemy force, the French soldiers responded in kind before switching to blades as the fighting continued.

 

With no firearm of his own, d’Artagnan felt incredibly vulnerable, and he darted to his left before coming across a set of steps that led upwards to the walkway that ran along the top of the fortress’ rampart. From his new vantage point, he had a clear view of the skirmish below. He moved slightly closer before pulling Lebas’ gift from inside his doublet, slipping the pouch between his left arm and his body to hold it there, leaving his right hand free.

 

Reaching his fingers inside the supple leather, he pulled out a small, but lethal-looking blade. Pausing for only a moment, he identified a target and let the knife fly, unerringly embedding it in the back of one of the Englishmen. There were two more knives nestled inside the pouch and d’Artagnan threw each with a stunning degree of accuracy. The first knocked a reloaded pistol from one man’s hand as the steel pierced his palm, and another attacker was brought to his knees when the second blade was buried in his thigh.

 

Despite d’Artagnan’s assistance, a couple of his brothers-in-arms had been injured, and those remaining were still battling the remaining Englishmen. Out of weapons, he began to make his way back to the stairs leading down to the ground, only to be stopped by an aggressor coming up towards him. Unarmed, the Gascon had little choice but to turn and run in the opposite direction, moving as quickly as he could along the narrow walkway.

 

Each jarring step sent shocks through his dislocated shoulder, and he cupped his left elbow in his right hand in a vain attempt to reduce the pain. Despite his pace, a quick glance behind him revealed his attacker gaining ground, and d’Artagnan knew he had only seconds left before the man was upon him. He feverishly racked his brain for an idea, his eyes bouncing between the narrow walkway beneath him and the courtyard down below and to his left.

 

A displaced rush of air alerted him to the fact that his foe was now within striking range, and he instinctively ducked his head, even though his protective position was unlikely to be of much help if the Englishman chose to thrust instead of slash with his sword. The hairs on the back of his next warned that the next attack was imminent and d’Artagnan began to brace for the impact of a blow. A moment later, he spotted his possible salvation, and with his remaining strength, he put on an extra burst of speed before flinging himself off the walkway.

 

He had no idea what happened next, his momentum bringing down to land briefly on the spot he’d targeted, but his one working arm wasn’t enough to catch himself. The energy of his dive had him slipping over and downwards, bringing him crashing to the ground on the other side of the elephant. The force of his fall had his nerves singing with intense agony, and d’Artagnan was certain that he’d blacked out for several seconds, leaving him at the mercy of their enemies. Despite that knowledge, the Gascon was too stunned and exhausted to move.

 

Instead, he laid absolutely still, waiting for the sound of blood rushing in his to abate so that he could make sense of what was happening around him. He could hear footsteps now and prayed that whoever was approaching was a friend. The sound ceased and d’Artagnan felt fairly certain that he was being observed. After several seconds, he heard someone say, “That was…”

 

“Astounding,” Athos stated dryly, finishing Porthos’ statement.

 

With the knowledge that it was his friends who surrounded him, any motivation that the Gascon might have dredged up to move swiftly rushed from his body.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you alright?” Aramis asked, the medic peering worriedly at the young man, his concern growing with every second that passed.

“Ow,” d’Artagnan groaned as his body voiced its immense discomfort. He kept his eyes closed for several moments more, concerned about what he would see when he opened them, until someone pointedly clearing his throat caught his attention. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and focused on the three smiling faces above him, all of the expressions tinged with varying levels of concern and amusement. No one spoke and the Gascon felt the heat rising in his cheeks, embarrassment leaving his mind blank and his voice quiet.

 

Finally, Athos broke the silence, stating matter-of-factly, but with a smile on his face that softened his words. “It seems you got your wish to get on the elephant’s back, although I think your dismount may need some work.”

 

With a wry grin of his own, d’Artagnan gave a one-sided shrug as he answered, “It’s not the fall that’s the problem, but the landings that you have to watch out for.”

 

The trio above him were silent for several heartbeats before Porthos’ deep laugher broke out, Aramis and Athos following immediately after. From his place on the ground, d’Artagnan joined them as he wondered how he would spin the tale of his daring feat without including his embarrassing landing. 

* * *

Lebas and his men had been successful in retaking the fortress, killing nearly all of the Englishmen and leaving only two alive to be brought back to Paris for questioning. Cavendish was discovered locked in one of the inner rooms along with his dog, and both were grateful to be released and eager to be on their way.

 

The merchant was cleared from any wrongdoing by the confession of one of the men who’d accompanied him, revealing that they’d been handsomely paid for their part in the plot to assassinate the King. As such, Cavendish completed the journey to Paris with a newly-expanded Musketeer guard, happily sharing his coach with the two wounded heroes, much to Athos’ chagrin. By the time they’d reached the palace, the former Comte was willing to do anything to escape the merchant’s attention. Even Porthos looked contrite about his part in bringing his friend to Cavendish’s interest, and he privately hoped that Athos’ retribution wouldn’t be too severe.

 

Porthos had also had a companion for the journey home, the merchant’s hound once again taking his spot next to the Musketeer’s horse, yipping excitedly each time the large man _accidently_ dropped some food. Cavendish seemed to be fine with the arrangement, no longer bothered by his dog’s fickleness, likely due to the fact that he had a captive audience in the form of a French nobleman.

 

Upon their arrival at the palace, Athos and d’Artagnan had thanked the merchant for his generosity in allowing them to share his carriage, and with the help of their friends, had quickly limped away to their horses. Aramis had been unwilling to allow either of them to ride back to Paris, but was fine with it for their short trip back to the garrison. Partway there, they’d detoured, silently and unanimously coming to the decision to head to Athos’ rooms instead. While Aramis accompanied to the injured men, Porthos took it upon himself to report to Treville, promising to bring food back with him once he’d finished.

 

That night, Aramis fussed and tutted over their injuries, and for once they let him, both men grateful to finally be warm and relatively free of pain. d’Artagnan’s head was feeling better, even though his newly relocated shoulder more than made up for any relief he’d gained from his concussion. It was clear that Athos’ ankle was bothering him a great deal as well, and he didn’t protest being deposited on his bed, or the pain draught that Aramis offered him shortly afterwards.

 

When he arrived, Porthos shared with them Treville’s congratulations on a job well done, and advised the injured men that they’d both be off duty for at least a week, possibly more, until Aramis was happy with their conditions. At that, the medic couldn’t help but grin in satisfaction. Despite their forced inactivity, the days passed pleasantly, d’Artagnan and Athos enjoying each other’s company, even if many of their hours together were spent in quiet as the latter man read and the Gascon tended his weapons.

 

Of course, there was a complete lack of silence on the evening that Porthos showed up for dinner carrying his boots in one hand, and complaining of the offensive smell that was emanating from them. After ordering him to leave his boots outside, Aramis and d’Artagnan laughed uncontrollably at the complete look of misery on their friend’s face, while Athos smiled knowingly but refused to comment on what might have happened.

 

Almost two weeks after their arrival back in Paris, both men were returned to active duty, although Athos had been given a stern warning to take things easy on his still-healing ankle. Their first day back, they’d been ordered to the palace to face a grateful King. Their audience with Louis was scheduled for mid-day, but as was often the case, the royal made them wait for several hours before finally seeing them close to dinnertime.

 

Given the relative warmth of the autumn day, the King was holding court in one of the gardens, and the Inseparables made their way there together once they’d been summoned. As expected, Louis sat in a grand chair, the Queen sitting to one side of him, and several feet away, but still in a position of honor, sat Cavendish. According to the royal scuttlebutt, the man had charmed Louis with stories of his travels, and had become a welcomed and valued guest.

 

As though rehearsed, Aramis and Porthos stopped in tandem, allowing d’Artagnan and Athos to travel several more steps until they were bowing before the royal couple. Louis’ face shone with delight as he stepped down from his throne. “Athos, d’Artagnan, it pleases us to see you looking so well,” he gushed, with a quick sideways glance at the Queen. “I understand that you were injured while foiling the plot against me, and you have our gratitude for your heroic actions.”

 

At that point, Louis paused, licking his lips momentarily as though considering what to say next. He looked over at Cavendish, who was beaming back at him and nodding eagerly in encouragement. Reaching a decision, the King began to speak once more. “Such acts of bravery deserve to be rewarded and I believe I have just the thing.”

 

d’Artagnan and Athos traded wary looks as the royal raised a hand towards one of his servants. Seconds later, another man came into view, this one holding the end of a thick rope. As the beast attached to it came into view, the two friends could hear Porthos splutter and choke behind them. The elephant was led to within a dozen feet of them, Louis stepping back somewhat to increase the distance between himself and the massive animal.

 

“d’Artagnan, I understand you had a…” the King paused again, searching for the right word and his face lit up when he found it. “A somewhat unsuccessful first attempt at riding it. In truth, it was your experience that convinced me not to mount the beast. After all, if one of my finest Musketeers was bested by it, then perhaps it’s better that I stick with the fine stallions in my stable.” With a look of glee, he asked, “Would you like to try again?”

 

d’Artagnan was horrified at the suggestion and had to work hard to school his features into an expression that was a mix of gratitude and remorse. “Your Majesty, you honor me with your offer. Unfortunately, I’ve only just been returned to duty, and Aramis warns me that another fall may permanently injure my arm, preventing me from working in your service. Regretfully, I must decline.”

 

Louis seemed unfazed that his offer had been rebuffed, already turning to Athos as he said, “And what about you, Athos. Care to show us how it’s done?”

 

The older man was as composed as always when he replied. “Your Majesty, your offer is indeed generous, but I do not require any form recompense. That you and the Queen remain healthy and safe is its own reward.”

 

The comment worked to put a pleased expression on Louis’ face, and as quickly as the idea of rewarding the Musketeers had come, it was gone again, and the King returned to his seat. With a nod of dismissal from the Queen, the men bowed once more and withdrew.

 

As they walked along the meandering path leading from the gardens, Porthos asked thoughtfully, “Did you notice the smell from that elephant?” When his companions remained silent, he continued. “I swear that’s what my boots stank of – like elephant, but ten times worse.”

 

Several moments passed in silence before d’Artagnan said, “Actually, Porthos, I think you may be onto something, especially when you consider the smell when it was relieving itself.”

 

The large man stopped in his tracks, missing the smirks on Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s faces as the men continued walking. As he hurried to catch up to them, the sound of his friends’ laughter floated back to him, and Porthos groaned as he vowed to never get on Athos’ bad side again.

 

End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who read, reviewed, followed and favorited this virtual gift for AZGirl's birthday. Many of you have commented on some of the unique elements in this story, and I have to pass credit along to AZGirl for her very creative list of prompts, which is included below. Till next time!
> 
> Story Prompts:
> 
> 1\. Main characters: d'Art and/or Athos.
> 
> 2\. No vomit scene.
> 
> 3\. A mention of last year's birthday story (Last Birthday), but not the mission or the ring.
> 
> 4\. Using a quote at the beginning of the story.
> 
> 5\. Knife throwing - the others didn't know that d'Artagnan is an expert at it.
> 
> 6\. A wacky/creative escape plan and/or a sting to get a baddie.
> 
> 7\. Time of year: Fall. A mention of fall leaves and their colors would be nice.
> 
> 8\. Porthos is basically a dog whisperer and can befriend any dog.
> 
> 9\. And the difficult one: an elephant.


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